


Give Me What For

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [286]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Economic Crash 2008, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Silver Fox Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-23 20:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20014060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “Look,” Tony said to the impossibly hot guy in 33B, “I’m glad you have a healthy sex life and all, but will you please try not to pierce a hole through my ceiling with your bed?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: look i’m glad you have a healthy sex life and all but will you please try not to pierce a hole through my ceiling with your bed thanks. Prompt from this [generator](https://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).
> 
> **And if you're new to the Mental Mimosa series, I strongly suggest you read an important note about how MM works[here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1012767).**

“Look,” Tony said to the impossibly hot guy in 33B, “I’m glad you have a healthy sex life and all, but will you please try not to pierce a hole through my ceiling with your bed?”

Said impossibly hot guy (Barnes, if the mailbox plate downstairs was to be believed) frowned a little and leaned his bare arm on the doorframe. “I’m sorry?”

“Are you?”

“I meant, I’m not following. Who are you and what the hell are you talking about?”

“Who am--?” It’d been a long, long time since anybody’d asked Tony that question because (hello) he was Tony fucking Stark. Now admittedly, admittedly, he’d fallen a bit in the world as of late; the housing market crash hadn’t done him any favors, nor had his predilection for coke and cheap rum and expensive women who ran on both. The whole going to prison for securities fraud thing, also not a feather in his cap, but it had kept his mug on the front pages of the reputable rags for months so people not knowing who Tony was had been the opposite of his problem. He was no Madoff--come on, Tony had class and the sense not to steal from people he knew--but he was no choir boy, either, and he’d done a solid sixteen months in Club Fed. But he’d been out for three and living the life of a relative saint in less genteel digs than he’d have liked; it was hard to say no, though, to free rent--yet another instance of his best friend Rhodey saving his life. 

“It’s just sitting there,” he’d told Tony during his next-to-last prison visit. “My last tenant was a deadbeat; had to kick him out last week. You want it when you’re out, it’s yours. For as long as you need.”

The building was dingy, a little boho, compared to Tony’s late penthouse, but fuck, it was miles ahead of a cell in block 41 (white collar, non-violent, visitors allowed twice a week). He could walk to the corner grocery and way downtown to the park, if his feet got itchy; he could smoke a pack of Camels before breakfast and break out another one after lunch. He could sleep all day if he wanted or go to a bar or jack off without fear of being seen or overheard.

The first month or so, it’d been paradise.

But then the impossibly hot guy had moved in upstairs and started bringing company over and now, at all hours of the fucking day and night, Tony had to listen to the guy’s bed frame screaming during round after round of apparently mind-bending sex. Sometimes, it wasn’t just the bedframe screaming; sometimes, it was a guy--or a girl. Sometimes, especially late in the afternoons, for some reason, it sounded like the fucker was about to crash through the ceiling like some sexed-up asteroid and frankly, that was not the way that Tony wanted to go.

And so: it was six o’clock on a Thursday and the marathon had finally taken a breath and Tony had shot up the stairs to bang on the guy’s door and say _What the fuck, man_?

But the Barnes guy had come to the door wearing only tight, dark jeans and a scruffy, need-to-shave beard and Tony’s preplanned and damn well earned speech of righteous fury had fallen into semi-snark land.

And now the guy didn’t even recognize him? Seriously. What the fuck.

“I’m your neighbor,” Tony said through clenched teeth. “The unfortunate downstairs one who has to listen to you fuck all the goddamn time. And what I’m asking for is, you know, maybe a few interludes of no sex at strategic points during a set 24 hours so I can lie in my own bed and close my eyes without fear of your very overworked bed crashing through the fucking ceiling and making for the world’s most awkward 911.”

Barnes blinked. His cheeks had gone pink. “Hey, uh. Why don’t we talk about this inside?”

 _No_ , the smart parts of Tony’s head said; the dumb ones were solid Team _Yes._ Was there any question which advice he would follow?

Inside, to his surprise, the whole vibe was very serene. Grays and soft blues on the walls; a comfy, chic sofa; a white long-haired cat. Nothing about it shouted fuck palace at all.

“So,” Barnes said, spearing a nervous hand through his long, dark (very pullable) hair. “Er, look, man, I’m really sorry I’ve been bothering you.”

“Me, too.”

That got blue eyes on him; sharp eyes, intense. “I guess I didn’t think about disturbing anybody. These pre-war buildings are usually pretty solid, that’s what I’ve always heard. So I just figured that--”

“That nobody could hear you banging half of New York?”

“Something like that.”

“Hey, you’re young, you’re horny, I get it,” Tony said, aiming for breezy and landing nowhere fucking near. “Whatever. It’s just--can you either, you know, keep it down or cut back?”

Barnes flashed his lashes. “Well, man, here’s the thing. Can I be straight with you?”

“Uh, sure.”

“I can try to keep it down, but I can’t cut back. Not just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Barnes said matter-of-factly, “fucking’s how I make my living. And my living’s not quite made yet.”

Tony blinked. “You’re, uh--you’re a sex worker?”

A smile flickered over Barnes’s face. “Ten points for the correct terminology.”

“And you, er”--why was Tony’s brain so helpfully malfunctioning--“you see clients here? Where you live?”

“Expense accounts aren’t what they used to be. And neither are trusting spouses.” Barnes chuckled. “Everybody reads their credit card statements a lot more closely these days. Some stray charge from Marriott is gonna get a lot more attention than it might have, once. Easier for everybody if the only payment they have to worry about is in cash.”

“Oh,” Tony said faintly. “Yeah, sure. I can see that.”

“And I like to give my clients their money’s worth. Repeat business is really where it’s at.”

A brisk nod, a rush of blood away from his head. He wasn’t picturing this dark-haired demi-god giving it to bankers on their lunch hour or vice-presidents who were “working late.” Not bent over the couch or tied down to Barnes’s overworked bed, that pretty mouth between their thighs and those eyes peering up them as he lapped at them, grinning.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

He wasn’t imagining those broad, tattooed arms pinned on either side of his head, those gorgeous hips ploughing into him, his own body stretched and wet and--

“Hey,” Barnes said. “Hey, man. You ok?” His hand was on Tony’s elbow. _Shit_. “You got a little spacey looking there. Your blood sugar dropkick or something?”

“Or something,” Tony muttered.

Barnes made a warm, disturbingly kind sound and gripped Tony’s arm harder. “It happens. It’s ok.”

No, it was not fucking ok, because Barnes was very close and he smelled amazing and on a good day, for a pretty man, Tony was weak. Never mind that this man was being nice to him when all he’d done was yell; never mind that it had been 18 months and 24 days since he’d had sex with anything besides his right hand. Never mind that Barnes was a sex worker and not a sex doll and Tony was sure as shit not a client and to even be thinking about Barnes like that without his expression written permission or several hundred dollars paid upfront felt skeezy and wrong.

“You know,” Barnes said, still stupidly close. “I didn’t introduce myself, did I?”

“S’ok. Neither did I.”

A smile. “James Barnes, your asshole upstairs neighbor. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Tony Stark, grumpy old man, apparently.”

If the name rang a bell, it didn’t show. “Unfair on both counts, I’d say.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Well, all I’m seeing is gray, and it looks good on you. So I’d go with _distinguished_ , not old.” 

“Hmph,” Tony said, flattered. And turned on. But mostly flattered, he told himself. “But you have to give me grumpy.”

“No, I don’t,” James said. 

“Why not?”

Barnes grinned, the heat of it spilling down Tony’s chest like hot coffee. “Because,” James said, “you came up to give me what for yourself and didn’t, you know, call the cops.”

“Oh,” Tony said, doing his best not to shudder. Even before his time behind bars, the boys in blue had never been his go-to. “No. I didn’t, did I?”

And then the ground shifted--or the planet did, hard to tell--because one second Barnes was holding him up and the next Barnes was, you know, _holding him_ : his arm around Tony’s back, another slung around his neck, their hips flush. 

“I owe you an apology,” Barnes breathed in Tony’s face. “And a thank you. That’s a lot of things to owe, don’t you think?”

“Mmmmm,” Tony said unhelpfully, his hands crawling over Barnes’s ribs of their own accord. “Uh huh.”

“And if there’s one thing you should know about me, Tony, it’s that I really fucking hate to be in debt.” Barnes’s lips brushed his. “So if you’re amenable, why don’t I blow you right here, huh, and we’ll call it tit for tat?”


	2. Chapter 2

Ok, Bucky thought, his fingers busy with the guy’s fly, maybe running right for _I’m a sex worker_ wasn’t the smartest line. Sure, it was the truth, but generally one that most people couldn’t handle; erring on the side of honesty had gotten him in trouble before.

But Tony seemed cool, if not the best kind of overwhelmed. Bucky could work with that.

“Oh honey,” he hummed, sliding his fingers inside Stark’s boxer briefs and tugging the man’s cock to the light. “Is all this for me?”

Tony blinked at him, dark eyes shiny and wide--the horny version of the thousand-yard stare. His hand stumbled blindly towards Bucky’s hair.

“It is, isn’t it. Barely have to touch you and you’re already fat for me, daddy.”

A yank to his roots, a hiss. “Don’t call me that.”

Huh. The business types usually went for that hard. And faded jeans and worn loafers notwithstanding, Tony was 100% Wall Street, just the sort that usually wanted Bucky to simper and suck and then bend over for a spanking. But not this guy, apparently. Huh.

He winked up at Stark and recalibrated his approach, made it simple: “What do you want to be called?”

Tony’s thumb stroked his cheek. His own stroked Tony’s cock. “I liked what you said before.”

“Honey?”

“Mmhmm, yeah. Honey was good.”

Bucky grinned. Always nice to be with a man who knew what he wanted. “I like how fat you are for me, honey.” He let his tongue touch his lips. “And the pretty way that you’re wet.”

It was a line, kind of, but it was true: Stark was wet, stiff enough from Bucky’s touch to leak a pearly drop from the slit.

“I think you should taste it,” Tony said.

“Hmmm, do you? I don’t know. I don’t think you’re desperate enough for it yet.”

Stark’s jeans were sliding off his hips, his dick jutting eagerly into Bucky’s hand, his balls still trapped in his shorts. He was panting a little, too, his breath beneath his Oxford coming in increasingly heavy gasps. And he hadn’t even felt so much as Bucky’s tongue yet. Bucky sighed and settled back on his heels. Hell, yes.

Most times, when he sucked cock, there was an incipient clock in his head that started the second said dick hit his tongue. It was a matter of economics, some days, when he had multiple appointments stacked up back to back: Mr. O needed to lose it so he could sneak a shower before Dr. S, and what made Mr. O come hardest was when Bucky squeezed his balls and moaned loud and wet around his shaft, and when Bucky needed to pull that trigger, he did.

Dr. S, conversely, liked to be sucked off with his back to Bucky’s front door, like Bucky had been lying in wait, so hungry for Dr. S's dick that he attacked him before the thing had properly closed and cut them off from the rest of the world. Dr. S liked Bucky to be naked and himself to be dressed except for his cock and when he came, he would yank it out of Bucky’s mouth and peel off the condom and pump a good wad or two on Bucky’s flushed, upturned face.

“That’s it,” Dr. S was prone to say in the midst of _la petite mort_. “Take it, baby. Take what you want.”

What Bucky wanted was ten minutes alone: a handful of crackers, some peanut butter, and a hot cup of tea. But shit, there was no money in that.

Then there were those clients that didn’t want him on his knees, like Mr. R. Mr. R, who showed up in butter-soft cardigans and sensible shoes; Mr. R. who was built like a tank but ran a library at NYU; Mr. R. who caressed him, who laid Bucky face down on the bed and straddled his hips and nuzzled the back of his neck. Mr. R liked to lick him open, part his cheeks and lap at Bucky’s ass until Bucky was clawing at the sheets and loudly dying; Mr. R, who used too much lube and was so, so deliciously gentle until he was inside, big and heavy and perfect, and then he would hold Bucky’s hips and moan against his back and fuck him until Bucky came with a sob, spunked up the sheets so hard he forgot this was work, that Mr. R was paying for the privilege of pounding him into next week, that Mr. R would be gone in ten minutes, face hot with satisfaction, the lion inside him caged again until next Thursday when he’d knock on Bucky’s door and smile when it opened, gorgeous and wide.

Being a sex worker was all about reading people, about listening, about seeing around the corners in a client’s stammering, everyday speech. But he hadn’t had that luxury with Tony, not really; he’d run his mouth off and gotten nervous and defaulted to what the world had decided were his talents: making strangers feel good with his mouth and his hands and his dick.

“Baby,” Tony breathed. “Oh, god. Just like that.”

His fingers teased around Bucky’s mouth, tracing the stretch, slipping over the spine of his cock as Bucky worked it in and out, in and out again, in. He was letting Bucky drive, bless him, not caught up in some weird macho bullshit; no, the man was still shellshocked. _Dear Penthouse_ , Bucky thought, gazing up into those deep, dark eyes, _I knocked on my neighbor’s door today and you’ll never guess._

Bucky batted Stark’s jeans down with his free hand and cupped his ass, squeezed it, felt the answering jerk in his mouth. It was a nice ass, Tony’s, firm for an older guy; he was mad at himself, suddenly, for not yanking down Stark’s goddamn underwear and getting a feel for the man’s skin. He wondered if Tony liked having his ass smacked while he was fucking. Would he come with a stutter and grunt if Bucky slapped him while he was buried inside Bucky’s ass, his hands cuffed around Bucky’s wrists and Bucky squirming just so Tony would hold him harder as he arched up into that unwavering touch?

He moaned around the load in his mouth and Tony groaned, too, his nails catching the back of Bucky’s damp neck.

“Fuck,” Stark spat. “You feel so fucking good, baby. Don’t stop.”

There was a swell in Bucky’s jeans. He wanted to touch it. But he was making Tony feel good. Tony, this random guy he’d never met, who’d banged on his door, scowling, was now cradling Bucky’s head and thrusting, following the speed of Bucky’s hand, and groaning to beat the damn band. Tony, who Bucky wanted to come down his throat, who wasn’t wearing a condom, oh _shit_ , Tony who was--

“Oh, oh, _oh_! James, baby, stop, stop, jesus, you’re gonna make me--!”

\--who was hot and bitter on his tongue, bursting, whose balls were big and hot and jerking again and again. Tony, whose head was thrown back and whose ass was tense in Bucky’s grip, shuddering, as clutched at Bucky’s shoulders and came like a goddamn freight train. It was dirty and so not _a la carte_ and the fucked up thing was, it felt real, like a thing that was actually happening between two actual people instead of a sex worker and a john.

And then Tony was grinning at him, this golden blinding light, and tugging himself free and lifting Bucky up and they were kissing messily, Tony’s body sweetly limp and Bucky’s painfully not, and there was a weird sort of balance to it, wasn’t there, something strange and perfect and good.

Until it wasn’t. 

Until Tony was brushing Bucky’s hair from his eyes and Bucky wanted to close them and say something very dumb like _don’t stop_. But this wasn’t real; reciprocity wasn’t a thing. You don’t offer a total stranger a blow job _gratis_ and then beg for one in return. Never how badly he wanted to.

So Bucky stayed in the game, in his safe space, the one where he was in control, always, no matter who was on top.

He batted his lashes a little and nipped at Tony’s hand. “Did you like that, honey?”

“I think you know that I did.”

Lord, that voice. Tony sounded like he’d been the one deep throating. “So we’re even now, yeah? Apology offered and accepted?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. He found Bucky’s mouth again, lingered. When Bucky broke it and leaned back, was he dreaming, or did Stark look a bit hurt? “Sure. Even steven, neighbor. That’s us.”


End file.
